


Singapore

by potatosocks



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble, Inspired by 2020 GE, One Shot, Other, gov.sg please do not POFMA my ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25090585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatosocks/pseuds/potatosocks
Summary: He can’t remember his past. Singapore can’t remember his past. He can’t remember the days before the slabs of flats were erected, the trains slithering through his soil. All he can remember are flashes of riots, of wars, of kings, of small villages before.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Singapore

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo thank u for reading this! disclaimer: i am singaporean, lived here all my 19 years. studied sg history like we all do. this is a piece inspired by the 2020 general elections and my general feelings towards the current ruling party! this is a work of fiction, everything here is fictional and my opinion. mr government please do not pofma my ass

Singapore has never known a day of peace since summer 1959. Not since 31st May, where his newly-formed government unleashed his secret existence onto the local populace. He remembered the ceremony, bulbs flashing in front of his face, an iron grip on his shoulder as he remembered to smile, just like his newly-appointed government handler had told him. Smile. Smile so that the people can look to you. You are everything they- no, the handler had corrected himself. You, Singapore, are everything we stand for. You are Singapore. 

As he stood next to his Prime Minister, all he could think about was his future. But he didn’t know that he should have been more worried about his past. 

He stands in front of the mirror, looking at his reflection. His reflection stares back at him. Black straight hair, his skin tone slightly darkened - but not too much. His white uniform crisp, the red-and-blue logo neatly above his heart. He looks the same way he did 61 years ago. HIs gaze is serene, calm. Some might even call it cold. 

He doesn’t remember looking this way, before the white uniforms, before his independence. Then again, he barely remembers anything from his - his “pre-colonial” days. That was how his handler had called it when he asked about his past. Pre-colonial. Clinical. Detached. Distant. 

His mind wanders back to the haze of memories of the past. He remembers his time with England best. He remembers learning English, dressing up in a suit and tie. England had been the one to give him his name - Singapore. It sounded cultured, cosmopolitan. Appealing to the world. 

Before England he was just a small fishing village. That’s what his handler had told him. That was what his people have learned. Something tugs against the current of his memories - a war, a king, a name. He wasn’t called Singapore then. It was something else. Something older, something ancient. He was called -

His skin burned one night - before 1959. His insides churned as the flesh on his skin boiled. This has happened before, but never to this extent. He had scrambled to a mirror, his hands trailing the flesh on his face. Light. So light. 

He remembers that day, because that was the day he stopped looking like Malaysia. 

Malaysia. Malaya. His big sister. When he was younger, he wanted to be exactly like her. He would trail after he, like a lost puppy. Her hand had felt clammy in his, yet her grip remained tight, as their union was announced. Malaysia. That was they would be. Together as one. 

On 9th August, they stood apart. They hadn’t spoken to each other in years. Just the polite murmurings at political events. The tension of what happened in the past always seemed to simmer below the surface. He called her Malaysia, and she called him Singapore. She used to call him a different name. A name before -

He can’t remember his past. Singapore can’t remember his past. He can’t remember the days before the slabs of flats were erected, the trains slithering through his soil. All he can remember are flashes of riots, of wars, of kings, of small villages before. But he knows the right answer to this question. He was a fishing village, before England, before his government. 

And he would be nothing without his government, wouldn’t he? The government is the country. The country is the government. 

Since 31st May 1959, he wears a white shirt in public events. He goes to charities, welfare walks on the ground. His team tells him to smile, to acknowledge the residents living there. They all grasp his hand almost reverently. He is supposed to be them. He lives and breathes and talks and eats just like them, doesn’t he?

Singapore doesn’t belong to them. Singapore doesn’t represent them. 

Every 5 years, he recites buzzwords his handler has drilled into him. Perfectly crafted sentences that sway. He recites campaign promises, statistics, improvements to estates and the livelihoods of the people. 

He is supposed to represent the common man, but he can feel the growing resentment, the desire for change. But what can one country do when he can’t even remember who he was? 

Singapore. His handler is calling him. Yes. That’s his name. And this is who Singapore is. A boy who can’t doesn’t know his past. All he knows is the cards in his hands and the buzzwords he’s been trained to recite. 

His cards are shoved into his hand. He is pulled before a podium. He looks out into the crowd, into his people. But he is not theirs. 

“My fellow Singaporeans -“


End file.
